


like you dirty

by ravenouses



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (next time i promise), Almost Sex, Drabble, FrostIron - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 11:57:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5162981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenouses/pseuds/ravenouses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony really wouldn't mind if Loki wanted to interrupt him more often.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like you dirty

"That's, uh...failure to launch, Jarvis. Let's—"

"I'll say."

The smooth, cultured voice that replies does not belong to the AI, but to one alien god garbed in casual Midgardian style and leaning leisurely against the nearest wall. For how long he had been watching Iron Man tinker with a new suit could not be said. Apparently long enough to snark about the trial and error of a mechanical limb insistent upon breaking everything made of glass. (Tony wonders why at this point he doesn't make more resilient walls.)

With a loaded sigh, Tony tosses his screwdriver on a table, meandering his way to a glass of amber liquid and ice cubes with but a glance to Loki. More attention is earned by a hologram disorder of designs spread in front of the computers.

"You aren't finished yet? It's rather late."

A headshake precedes the short and predictable answer. "Nope."

But Loki really isn't having that, and pale gaze narrows with a head cant. "You have grease in your hair."

"Probably."

"Your clothes are a disaster."

"Yep."

Lips twitch. "Have I mentioned how exceptionally arousing you are when _filthy_ from your work?"

"Yea—" And every muscle in the mechanic's body seems to halt, and backtracks on Loki's words, realization bringing astonishment clearly to his expression. As if he's never _heard_ the like. The god was sinking teeth into his bottom lip to restrain a chuckle when Tony looks over his shoulder, and little did he know _that_ is what crosses the line.

Glass of scotch is retrieved from the table, and finished in a quick throw back. Once placed back down, hand is outstretched, and a sharp curl of fingers beckons to the trickster. Following with a stern look. "You. Here. _Now_."

Mischief gleams in green eyes, all too eager and happy to satisfy the command. And who needs to idle the time with walking? Not in moments like these. Loki is a wisp, a shimmer, disappeared, and reappeared sitting upon the edge of the worktable, (a _well_ utilized spot if it were to be so shamelessly spoken). Tony is hardly disoriented by the use of magic—no snide remark of it, and Loki might begin to think that the man of science was accommodated to it—spinning effortlessly to trap the god's hips between his grasp.

Without a breath to linger on, cool and lissome fingers thread into the shorter man's oil-dampened hair. Not a fumble in their angle before fervent meeting of lips. A kiss that rakes the heat down Loki's spine and already has desire flaring beyond any point possible of quelling.

And Tony _really_ wouldn't mind if Loki wanted to interrupt him more often.


End file.
